


Cold Moon

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Christmas Eve, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a lonely Christmas Eve, Marco learns that sometimes Christmas miracles do happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkyKinky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkyKinky/gifts).



> Reposted from my [tumblr](http://mintycrystal.tumblr.com) because people seemed to like it :') Heavily inspired by 'Cold Moon' by The Zolas! Give it a listen for the full effect! (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KSlCYTTyxcQ)
> 
> EDIT: Now, there is also [this wonderful art](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com/post/116673470710/with-his-nose-buried-in-the-pillows-he-lets-his) from [Inky](http://inkykinky.tumblr.com) !! Please check it out yo!

Somehow everything seems to be moving slower in the winter.

Traffic is less noisy, the aggressive sounds of roaring engines muted by the white isolation all around. Marco likes watching snow fall from the sky, tiny ice crystals and big, heavy patches alike drifting slowly down to Earth where they create a veil of cold silence. As if looking through a time-influencing binocular, his eyes follow people crossing the muddy gray street outside; some hurrying to catch the bus, little children trudging behind their parents and pointing excitedly at the displays behind shop windows, elderly people shuffling along slowly, stopping from time to time to take a long breath before continuing on their way.

Marco’s warm breath hits the windowpane with every open-mouthed exhale, fogging it up and blurring everything behind it. Cold fingers uncurl, extracting themselves from the fuzzy sleeve of his sweater to draw patterns on the moist glass.

The steady ticking of the clock and soft squeaky noises from where skin meets glass are the only sounds breaking the silence. December has always brought this calm sense of wonder with it that fascinates him, makes him look forward to the cold time of year every year.

A low, breathy sigh. This year is an exception.

Dark brown eyes flick away from the white-gray of the outside world to scan the calender on the wall.

December twenty-fourth. Christmas Eve.

He should be happy. He should be hurrying to run some last-minute errands, or calling friends or family. He should be preparing dinner, or do  _something._ He isn’t supposed to be hanging by the window alone on a day like this.

Another sigh makes its way past his chapped lips. He’s been chewing on them a lot again lately, picking that habit back up after working hard for over a year to get rid of it. He closes his eyes for a moment, a feeble attempt at running away from the memories of the past year invading his mind. It’s useless.

No matter how hard he tries, once the door to that particular part of his memory has been unlocked there’s no going back.

With every blink of an eye a new image flashes before him—golden eyes glowing when the sun hits them, smooth, pale skin showing under the hem of a low quality tee, a row of teeth that’s slightly off to the left, only ever showing during a genuine smile. After a while sounds bubble up, too. A growl of annoyance, a sharp intake of breath, a snicker, a badly stifled moan—

Strands of dark hair fall into his eyes as he shakes his head to clear his mind, willing the memories to go away.

Jean has been gone for more than half a year, disappeared to a place to where Marco couldn’t follow, leaving him in that too-big-for-one-person apartment all by himself. Ever since he’d left their home for the last time, everything has felt colder to Marco. He stares out the window again, deliberately ignoring the little ‘J’s he’d drawn at the bottom.

A job offer abroad. So many times has he tried to convince himself that he would have acted the same way. It was a once in a lifetime chance, so he surely would have taken it, right? And still, his heart aches at thoughts of Jean being thousands of miles away from him, living a happy life without him, not even taking the time out of his day to send him a message now and then.

The thoughts hurt.

This is his first Christmas alone. Last year he and Jean had spent the holidays in a little village in Austria, nothing special and still special all the same, because it had been the two of them together.

With the sleeve of his sweater Marco wipes the breath-induced condensation off the window before he shuffles through the apartment. He passes the kitchen on his way, the bathroom, and the living room.

The bed sheets are cold when he lowers himself onto the bed and pulls off his pants and socks. With his nose buried in the pillows, he lets his eyes slip closed, breathing in deep and slow. The stale scent of camomile detergent lingers in the fabric even though he can’t remember the last time he washed the pillow case. But, he knows that the empty detergent package is still somewhere in the washroom in the basement. He refuses to throw it away because it reminds him of the time Jean had told him he liked smelling it on him. For what feels like the millionth time that day, he sighs.

Minutes, hours tick away without him moving. His feet, his hands, his whole body is cold by the time he finally pulls the blanket up to hide beneath it. The room is dark, so dark, getting darker every minute. The streetlights flicker on one by one without him noticing, the wind picking up and batting flocks of snowflakes around.

He knows he could have told Jean. That he didn’t want him to leave, he could have told him, but like so many times before he had put someone else’s well-being above his own. They had talked about it, discussed it for hours, days even. He didn’t tell Jean to stay. This is his own fault.

Thoughts keep racing in his head, and when they start slowing down,  _finally_ , he’s on the brink of sleep.

Marco’s eyelashes are wet when he opens his eyes to the sound of his cellphone buzzing on the bedside table. He blinks the salty drops clinging to his lashes away to clear his vision of the device when he grabs it. The artificial light blinds him at first, but his eyes go wide when he reads the message he’d received.

_I miss you._

A few seconds later another one comes in.

_I’m sorry. I’m so sorry._

Marco’s feelings are a mess. He doesn’t know what to feel first. Sadness? Relief? …Hope?

_I know I should have talked to you earlier._

_I should have called you._

_I know I’m an asshole for leaving you like that, Marco._

_I miss you so fucking much._

_My new apartment is shit. I want to come back home. Back to you._

Marco blinks rapidly, his emotions jumbled, mind overwhelmed with a thousand thoughts at the same time. His phone vibrates again, robbing him of any chance to collect himself.

_This job is so great, Marco. But I miss you._

_I wish you could be here._

The flow of messages stops. He waits. The crunching of snow outside tells him a car is pulling into the street.

_I want to see you again._

_Would you want to see_ me  _again? Probably not._

_I’m so fucking selfish, Marco. But I need to see you again._

_Sorry to be bothering you on a day like today but-_

His brain is telling him to turn the phone off. Turn it off and go to sleep—clinging to any chance of seeing Jean again is unhealthy. In the beginning he’d hoped he’d come back soon, but with every passing day that hope had grown thinner and his heart heavier. But his heart is telling him to keep reading, waiting for the next messages. Every time a new one comes in, his breath catches, if only a little bit.

_One way plane tickets are so fucking overpriced._

_Would you hate me if I told you I started smoking again?_

_…I guess I couldn’t keep my part of the deal without you there. Weak, huh?_

_You probably won’t even read any of these, but…if there’s a chance that you do…_

There’s another pause. Marco reads over the last texts again and again, trying to make sense of them. They don’t seem like texts, actually. More like one-sentence diary entries. “What are you doing, Jean…?” he whispers into the sheets, his own breath hitting the fabric before it wafts over his skin. Then, a new text.

_I have done a lot of stupid things._

_Or a million. I’m a jerk._

_I’m so fucking selfish, but could you do me a favor?_

A favor? Marco frowns, deep wrinkles appearing on his forehead. He contemplates turning his phone off after all, but when the weight in his palm buzzes again, he’s already reading.

_Can you open the door for me?_

Marco freezes, eyes impossibly large, breath catching in the back of his throat. A car door slams shut outside. Heavy steps in the snow. The motor starts up again, the sound growing louder before it disappears around the bend in the street.

He doesn’t know what greater power gives him the strength to get up and pad over to the door, his bare feet thudding on the cold floor. Goosebumps spring up on his skin, and he’s shivering, but he doesn’t really notice over the beat of his heart pounding in his chest.

Jittery fingers clasp around the door handle, and then he opens the door.

Jean.

Jean’s two-toned hair is wet, snowflakes caught in the longer top hair. His nose and lips are cherry red. Two bags are soaking in the snow at his feet, but all Marco can look at is his face. Golden eyes wide and fearful, he stares at Marco on the doorstep. Icy air blows through the hall.

“Jean—”

“Marco—”

Tears well up again, rolling down Marco’s cheeks and soaking the collar of his shirt. He’s here. He’s right here, standing right before him, lips trembling. It takes him a moment to register the trace of wetness on Jean’s face. Jean is crying, too, cell phone in hand, and even if Marco hadn’t wanted to go there again… he can’t help the burning fire in his stomach, setting him ablaze with every breath he takes. The longer he looks at Jean, the longer he keeps his eyes trained on the tears dropping from his chin and into the scarf he’s wearing, the more he wants to reach out to him.

Marco’s phone buzzes in his hand, already forgotten.

“Please check your messages one more time,” Jean presses out. He does as he’s told, lifting the device up to eye level and unlocking the screen.

_I love you._

“I think of you everyday.” Jean’s voice is weak when he speaks up again. “When I left—when I boarded that airplane—I was hoping you’d stop me. Tell me you don’t want me to leave. But you didn’t, so I just assumemmphh—”

The sound of Marco’s cell phone colliding with the floor echoes in the hall when he steps forward, his bare feet landing in the snow, before pressing a salty kiss to those cherry lips. He leans back for a moment, opening his eyes to see Jean’s reaction.

Jean runs a finger over his own lips. “You’ve been biting your lips, Marco,” he whispers, the tiniest of smiles tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Weak, huh?” Marco replies, repeating Jean’s written words.

Jean doesn’t reply, instead he holds Marco’s gaze, then he closes the space between their faces to lean up for another careful kiss, his hands coming up to wrap around Marco’s waist and pulling him close. He’s shaking against Marco, but Marco lets him, drinking in his scent, the soft noise he makes when he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling the tears dry on his cold skin. It only takes one kiss from Jean and he’s falling.

By the time they part again they’re both shivering from the cold, but there’s a spark glowing between them. They were two puzzle pieces lost in different parts of the room, but now they’ve found each other again, and Jean whispers into Marco’s ear as their fingers twine, hushed apologies and promises that Marco returns just as earnestly, refusing to let go ever again.

Around them snowflakes drift peacefully in the stilling wind, and Marco points at a particularly pretty one sitting in Jean’s scarf. Jean smiles up at him, rubbing their red noses together.

“Merry Christmas, Marco.”


End file.
